


With Something of Angelic Light

by WomanOf1000Faces



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Christine is the Phantom, Erik is a new in-house composer who did not know what he was getting into, F/M, Friends to Lovers, International Fanworks Day 2021, Roleswap, Slow Burn, assorted other Opera Populaire denizens in background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WomanOf1000Faces/pseuds/WomanOf1000Faces
Summary: In which Christine is the one with the scars and the moniker and the tragic backstory, and Erik is the musician/composer whose career she decides to promote. Romance ensues.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Madame Giry, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from William Wordsworth's "She Was a Phantom of Delight".
> 
> Warning that the first few chapters do contain rather more violence than the rest, mostly in the form of child abuse. The same chapters also contain canon-typical negative portrayals of Gypsies.

Gustave didn't want to die.

It wasn't just that he was too young (not quite thirty), or that he had things left that he wanted to do with his life, or that he was afraid for himself. What fear and regret he had were reserved almost exclusively for the small girl kneeling by his bedside in the cramped caravan, her body shaking with sobs as tears ran down her marred face. 

His daughter's face had been a source of more worry than usual for Gustave lately. Having raised her by himself for nearly all of her seven years, he'd long since grown used to the emaciated look of it, the way the scarred skin barely stretched over the bones, and it no longer bothered him except in concern for how she might feel about it when she grew older. But since they had taken up with this gypsy caravan en route to Paris, he'd seen the way the caravan master and others looked at her. In the early days of the journey, he'd actually been offered money for the strange-looking child with an angel's voice, and the anger in his refusal had warned off other potential comers. 

If he died, though, there would be no one to look after her welfare.

"Christine," he said softly, trying not to cough. "Christine, I need you to listen to me."

The child lifted her tear-streaked face and focused on him.

"I can't stay with you, Christine," he whispered. "I must go away to heaven. When I do, it will not be safe for you here anymore. You must run away from here and find kind, good people, who will help you get to Paris and the opera house, do you understand?"

Christine nodded. "How will I know if the people are kind and good, Papa?"

"Because they will not be afraid of you." Gustave mustered enough strength to sit partway up and kiss his daughter's forehead. "If anyone sees your face and is afraid of you, or laughs at you, or calls you a monster or a devil, they are bad people and you must run far away from them."

The tiny child nodded seriously, then broke down weeping again. "Papa, I will be so lonely without you."

"Oh, child." Gustave stroked her thin, curly hair. "Hush now. Listen. Once I am in heaven, I will send you a special angel to keep watch over you - the Angel of Music. He will make sure you are never lonely. Do you believe me, Christine?"

She nodded solemnly. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you, too, Christine." He could feel Death, cold and cruel, stealing upon him. "Now go. You must run, far away from here."

Christine clung to his hand a moment, then let go and fled the caravan, pulling her hood and scarf over her face as she went. Gustave wept to watch her disappear, but as his sight faded, he knew he had done right.

...

Christine didn't fully understand what was happening, or why she had to run. She knew her face was different, and sometimes she scared new people, but what did that have to do with anything?

(There had been a time, when she was very small, when Christine had frightened herself with her own reflection, thinking there was a monster about to eat her. But her papa had comforted her and told her it was just her own face, and not a monster face, and he'd helped her get used to it, and Christine didn't even remember that time anymore.)

She ducked behind a caravan and ran smack into a brightly colored skirt. At the top of the skirt was Mama Rosie, the caravan master's wife and a fortune-teller. Mama Rosie was smiling, like she was happy to see Christine, but it wasn't a nice smile, somehow. 

"Where are you running off to, devil's child?" she cackled. "Just how far did you think you could get, anyway?"

Christine tried to duck around her, but found herself scooped up in wiry arms and hauled back into the midst of the camp. "Quit struggling, imp," Mama Rosie spat, "or you'll pay for it out of your scrawny hide later."

The woman dumped her onto the ground once they reached the center of the caravans, and the rest of the clan gathered around. "What are we going to do with her?" someone shouted.

"Give her to Andrei - he's responsible for the wild beasts, he can handle this one."

"No." The voice of the caravan master cut through the clamor. "Devil's Child is its own show. Peter's already set up an empty caravan with a cage in it."

A round of cheers. Somebody added, "And get it into different clothes - that dress is too good for it."

Christine was dragged off again - she wasn't sure by whom. The events of the day were starting to overwhelm her, and she was only marginally aware of someone undressing her and pulling a rough shift over her head. The same person shoved her into a cage of bars, about as wide and as deep as a man's height. She landed on the straw-covered floor, and was covered in darkness as the caravan was abandoned and shut up.

Some time later, she was aware that the caravan was putting on a show. Before, a show had meant an opportunity for some cautious fun, watching the dancers and contortionists and musicians. Now, it meant Peter, a broad man with a bushy black beard and bulging eyes, luring people into her dark, bare caravan, proclaiming her the Devil's Child and striking her as the visitors laughed.

After everyone had gone and the show was over, Peter came back and began beating her with a stick. "Lousy act!" he snarled. "Barely any take from this caravan - we get more from the dancing bear!" When he came close enough, Christine could smell the alcohol on his breath.

Whimpering, she curled into herself on the straw-littered floor and waited for the blows to end. "Angel of Music," she whispered, "where are you? Why don't you come take me away?"

There was no answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have tried to find some canon record somewhere of Erik's last name, and I have failed. Therefore, for the purposes of this fic I've borrowed the name "Valliere" from the works of Soignante over on FFnet (which I highly recommend). All other family details in this chapter I've invented from whole cloth for narrative convenience.

"Erik! Leave that dusty old sheet music and come on - there are gypsies, and Father has paid them to put on a fair just for us!"

Erik Valliere sighed a long, weary sigh and set down his pen, turning to face his younger sister in the doorway. He considered explaining to her that the sheet music he was currently working with was neither dusty nor old, as he was in the process of writing it. He considered making the argument that he didn't particularly want to see a traveling gypsy fair, and would much rather stay put and continue with what he was doing. But he knew none of the above would work, and resigned himself to participation.

"I'll just be a moment, Lisette. Tell them I'm coming."

Lisette scampered off, looking rather younger than her thirteen years, and Erik set about creating some sort of order out of the mess his composing process had created. That done, he made his way down to where the remainder of his family - his parents, Lisette, and his older brother Jean-Paul - were waiting.

"Was he buried in his music again, Lis?" inquired Jean-Paul. Lisette giggled and nodded in confirmation. 

"Still?" Erik's father clapped him on the shoulder. "You should be taking more of an interest in society and your responsibilities, Erik. You are seventeen, almost a man."

"I was under the impression Jean-Paul was fulfilling any such responsibilities admirably," Erik said, donning a cloak against the chill outside.

No one bothered to continue the argument, for at that point all five left the house and started towards the gypsy encampment that had sprung up on the manor's grounds. Erik could hear the faint strains of music carried to him on the evening breeze - violins and tambourines and bells and drums. It was wilder, sharper than what he usually liked, but he made note in his mind of the sound of it, anyway. One never knew when such things would come in handy.

His father and brother admired the dancers, his mother squeaked at the contortionists, and Lisette dragged him away from the musicians to find a fortune-teller. "I don't want my fortune told," he tried to protest. "And neither should you. It's foolishness."

"Oh, come now. Don't you want to know if your music will be famous someday?" Lisette grinned sweetly at him. "Maman and Father and Jean-Paul might be blind to it, but I know you secretly want to run away and be a great composer. Maybe the fortune-teller can see if your wish will come true!"

Before they could make it to that particular tent, however, their path was abruptly blocked by a tall, broad man with a bushy black beard. His colorful vest was stained, and his eyes bulged out as he hissed, "Come! You must come - come and see the Devil's Child!"

Lisette gave a little cry of startlement, then laughed. "All right then. Erik, don't you want to see?"

Erik really didn't - something about the man gave him the creeps - but Lisette wasn't actually asking. "I can't possibly go into a caravan alone with some strange gypsy man, *mon frère aîné*," she pointed out. "You have to make sure I stay safe and do not do anything foolish."

Reluctantly, Erik let himself be pulled by the hand into a distinctly dingy and ill-painted caravan. The gypsy who had lured them in shuffled across a mostly bare space to an iron cage at the far end. In the corner farthest from the door was what initially looked like a pile of rags, but as the gypsy entered the cage, the rags stirred, and Erik saw that it was actually a child.

The waif was bone-thin, covered in a barely adequate shift, with thin, tangled curls hanging in mats down to the shoulders. It was impossible to tell if the child was a boy or a girl. The marks of abuse and starvation, however, were all too plain, as was the way the "exhibit" cringed away from the gypsy man when he entered the cage.

"Get up!" barked the gypsy, striking the child with a whip from his belt. "Show your face! Give the gentry a show."

The child did indeed sit up, and Lisette jumped and stumbled back into Erik at the sight. It was evidently a girl, or meant to be one, for someone had applied a mockery of cosmetic paints to her face. The face itself was even more emaciated than the rest of her, and the pale skin that stretched over the bones was blotched and scarred in places. It seemed her death's-head appearance had triggered the gypsies' superstitions - and Lisette's, too, from the way she flinched back as the child attempted to do a clumsy dance.

Erik was not afraid, not of the child. He pitied her, felt sorry for her, but mostly he was angry. How long had this been going on? Where were her parents, and did they know about this? Had they allowed it? He wanted to lash out at the gypsy, beat him with his own whip and see how he liked it. He wanted to...

He couldn't lose his temper. That wouldn't help. He would only end up in disgrace, and likely cause the child to be punished even more. Unable to speak, he silently steered Lisette out of the caravan before he could lose control.

And yet, as they walked away, he couldn't escape the feeling of something drawing him back to that dirty little cage. He gave Lisette a little nudge. "Go spend your pocket money on sweets. I want to look around on my own a bit."

Fortunately, she didn't question it, and skipped away to find a candy-seller. Once she was well away, Erik doubled back and found the Devil's Child caravan once again.

Nobody was near it, and it appeared the uncouth gypsy from before had wandered away without visitors to entice. Erik glanced around once more to double-check, then slipped inside. The caravan was very nearly dark, no lantern having been left inside, but enough dim evening light came through the partially-open door for him to make out shapes, and he could hear the child weeping in the corner of the cage.

How exactly did one comfort an abused little girl - or any little girl, for that matter? Erik reached for the phrases that had sometimes worked when Lisette was small and in a temper. "Ssh. Ssh, now. It'll be all right. Don't cry."

He was uncomfortably aware that these were lies, but what else could he do?

The child drew in a sharp breath, and lifted up her head. "Who is it? Who's there?"

Erik wasn't sure giving his name was the best course of action. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a friend." Absently, he noted that, even rough from disuse, her voice was very soft and sweet - why hadn't the gypsies put her to work singing, instead of this abomination? "What is your name?"

"My name is Christine Daae," she recited, as if it were something she'd memorized at some point. "My papa's name was Gustave, and he was going to take us to Paris so he could play the violin in a great orchestra. But he got sick with fever and went away to heaven. He told me to run away and find good people, but the gypsies locked me up instead." The girl paused. "Are you the Angel of Music? Papa said the Angel of Music would come to me when I was lonely, but he hasn't come yet. Will you take me away to Papa in heaven, Angel?"

Erik's heart broke for the caged little girl and the innocence she'd somehow retained. More than anything, he wanted to break her out of the cage and save her, or buy her from the gypsies, but he knew he would be allowed to do neither. His parents would say that something as freakish-looking as her belonged in a sideshow, not in their manor-house. 

"How old are you, Christine?" he asked, as gently as possible.

"Nine years."

"That is too young to go to heaven, Christine," he said. "I know you miss your father, and he misses you, but you must be patient. I cannot take you away right now, but someday I will come and set you free. I promise." This, he meant with all seriousness. As soon as he was a man, and had his own money and property, he would find this caravan again and do whatever he had to do to get her out. 

He expected her to protest, but apparently her faith in her Angel was absolute, for she didn't question him. Instead, she crept closer to the bars, peering at his face. "You are so beautiful, Angel," she said, a trifle wistfully. "Would you sing for me?"

Erik could sing, and sing well, having taken lessons in his youth, but he rarely had the opportunity to put the skill into practice. For Christine, though, he would. The melody he had been composing earlier surfaced in his mind - it was close enough to a lullaby. "Of course I will sing for you."

He had not planned for there to be words to this tune, but he improvised them anyway.

_ Rest now, my child, so sad, so weary, _

_ Lay down your pain and trouble. _

_ Angel of Music guards and guides you, _

_ Grants you a sweet slumber. _

_ One day you'll walk in the sunlight, _

_ Shadows all flown far away. _

_ Free, you will walk from this prison _

_ To a bright new day. _

_ Angel of Music watches o'er you _

_ Unseen, he hides, waiting _

_ Until the day he may deliver _

_ You from your dark bondage. _

He could have gone on, but he heard voices approaching outside, and knew he had to make his exit. "I must go, Christine," he murmured, reaching through the bars to stroke her thin hair. "Do not despair. You will not spend the rest of your life in a cage. I will make sure of it."

His song had soothed her enough that she was somehow already half-asleep, and so she only smiled at him, her eyes closed. Reluctantly, Erik left her, and was able to slip out the back door of the caravan just in time to avoid being spotted by the returning black-bearded gypsy.

Shortly thereafter, the Vallieres regrouped and returned to the house, leaving the fair for the staff to enjoy. Erik was glad to leave. The longer he lingered, the stronger his urges to attempt something to help Christine grew, and he knew perfectly well he could enact none of them without making matters worse. 

When he returned to his desk, he gathered up the sheet music he'd been working on and folded it up carefully, putting it away in a particular drawer. He would not do anything further with that melody. It belonged to Christine, now and always, for whatever it was worth. He had been able to give her nothing else, but he would give her the one thing he could: his music.

He pulled out fresh sheets, but the only music in his mind was the tunes the gypsies had played, now tinged with cruelty after what he had witnessed. Unable to escape it, he began to scratch down the beginnings of a piece that reflected the carefree wildness of those violins, with an undercurrent of heavy minor chords that became iron bars and whip welts.


	3. Chapter 3

"Angel of Music...guards and guides you..."

Christine sang softly to herself, her voice muffled against her arms as she curled up on the floor of the cage. She had sung that song so many times she knew it by heart, both in her own voice and in the memory of her Angel's much deeper register. It was the only light in her dark life, the only thing that reminded her she was human.

It had been a year since the Angel of Music had visited her, and it felt much longer. He had promised, then, to come back and free her someday, but Christine wasn't sure she believed that anymore. She didn't need to. Someone had been kind to her, just once, besides her father, and that was enough. It didn't matter if no one ever did again. She knew it  _ had _ happened, and she had the song, and that was enough.

Nobody else had ever heard her Angel's song. She had made sure of that.

There were visitors coming tonight, she knew. Outside, she could hear the music and laughter, and smell the food, that only appeared when people with money were coming through. Someone passing by her caravan had mentioned the word "Paris". Perhaps that was where they were now.

Christine could remember a time when she and Papa were traveling to Paris. It seemed, more than anything, like a long-ago dream.

Peter, foul-smelling and evil-tempered as usual, was leading a group in to see her, more people than usual this time. Lifting up her head just enough to see them, Christine could see that they were mostly little girls close to her own age, with a couple of ladies following them as chaperones. All the girls were wearing the same sort of dress, like a uniform, and all of them were much bigger and healthier-looking than she was.

They screamed, when Peter made her lift up her head and show her face. When they saw she could do nothing to harm them, though, a few grew bolder, jeering and laughing and occasionally throwing things. A very few tossed small coins - maybe those would induce Peter not to whip her so much. Christine dodged most of the missiles with a wearied ease born of practice, and stood to begin her deliberately clumsy dance when Peter directed.

Only one of the girls seemed wholly unwilling to partake in the laughter and taunting. She was almost as small as Christine, although not nearly as thin, with long blonde hair and pointed features. She stood very close to one of the women, who looked so like her Christine wondered if they were mother and daughter. The woman was whispering something to the blonde girl, and looked angry, but not at Christine or her maybe-daughter.

At last, the show was over and the visitors filed out. Peter gathered up the coins, shoved her down into a corner, and exited. Christine knew better than to relax. He wouldn't beat her badly while there were still visitors around who might come in and see, but once everyone had gone and he'd had a chance to get drunk, he'd be back.

A couple more groups came in before the evening was over. Christine endured them. As the fair wound down to a close, she curled in on herself on the straw and waited.

Old Margite came first, with food - there was generally more of that, and better, on fair nights, so that was something. Christine began wolfing it down as soon as the woman had gone. Once, in a different life, she'd had good manners. That was too long ago to remember.

She'd finished most of it, and was fighting her slight nausea to keep the richer stuff down, when Peter came. Christine had learned rapidly to gauge how drunk he was by how he moved. Tonight was very bad indeed.

He had the rod this time, not the whip, and as his opening salvo he struck her hard across the abdomen. Christine lost the battle with her stomach and heaved, spilling sick onto the cage floor and splashing Peter's boots. He bellowed, knocking her down into the warm stuff and striking anywhere he could reach.

To the end of her days, she would never know what made her do it, what made her cross the line. All she knew was that suddenly she would not take this anymore. They would probably kill her for what she was about to do, but death was preferable to this existence anyway. 

She had been taught, at some point, that killers did not go to heaven. Her Papa and her Angel would be disappointed. But she was done being patient.

Peter had a knife in his belt. He had been too drunk to remember to keep weapons out of her reach.

Afterward, she wouldn't remember the actual act of killing. Just leaping up, snatching the knife, and then standing over Peter's prone body as it leaked blood from the places she'd stabbed him.

Only then did she register that she was being watched. The woman from before, who had had the little blonde girl with her, was standing in the doorway of the caravan, her eyes wide with shock.

"What are you going to do to me?" Christine heard herself asking. "Are you going to scream for help?"

"Only if you intend to hurt me," the woman said, taking a careful step inside. "Do you?"

"No." Christine noticed her hands had Peter's blood on them. She wiped them on the leg of his pants. "I just wanted him to stop beating me."

"I saw." The woman was disturbed by Christine's face, she could tell, but was making an effort to not seem afraid. To not be afraid. "I understand why you did it. If you want, I can help you hide. I was going to buy you from the caravan master and set you free, but that may not be wise, now."

Christine considered this. She didn't have to die. The woman could keep her safe. Even if she meant ill, she couldn't be worse than what the past three years had brought.

She stepped out of the cage and let the woman take her hand. "What is your name, child?" her would-be rescuer asked.

"Christine Daae. My father and I were traveling to Paris with the gypsies, but he died, and they made me into a sideshow because of my face."

The woman squeezed her hand. "I am Madame Giry, and I live and work at the Opera Populaire. There are lots of little nooks and crannies where we can hide you and keep you safe. I will make sure you are taken care of and have everything you need. Do you like music?"

They were going to a place with music - an opera house! What had she done to deserve such happiness? "I love it," Christine said with feeling.

"That is good, because you will get as much of it as you can stand." Madame Giry was leading her away from the caravan with the cage and the blood, slipping through the shadows quickly and leaving the gypsy camp behind. "And you will never need to be afraid again."

Was all this a gift from her Angel of Music? Christine, thinking it over as Madame Giry wrapped a cloak around her and tucked her into a carriage, was no longer so sure that he had been an angel at all. Sleepily, she decided it didn't matter for now. She was free, and safe, and warmer than she'd been since the end of summer, and she had found someone good and kind. That was enough for now.


End file.
